


A Poison of the Mind

by AmateurScribes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: In the wake of the explosion of Armonia, Kimball falls ill. Deathly ill.And in the wake of their general being out for the count, Red Team steps up to the task of corralling an army who just lost their general and another scared that the same might happen to them. Or at least they try to.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Poison of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiaTheDreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for the absolutely amazing Ria! I hope your birthday manages to be absolutely amazing despite everything going on in the world right now!
> 
> No Beta for this so all mistakes are my own but hopefully, there aren't too many of those!

There's no time for Grif to process the fact that Doyle is Dead, with a capital 'd' because  _ it's just- it's- _ between getting back to the base as soon as possible. 

Carolina does whatever that...  _ bubble _ shield thing was to keep them safe from the explosion, but the carrier still rocks back and forth from the force.

And they're fine, they're safe, except-

"General?" Wash is shaking Kimball from where she's seated. "Kimball, are you... ok?"

Kimball does not respond.

"Shit." Wash curses under his breath, hand immediately going towards Kimball's neck to check for a pulse.  _ "Shit!" _

"What's wrong?" Simmons jumps out of his seat, settling quickly by Wash's side. 

"I need a health kit  _ now," _ Wash commanded, pushing past Simmons towards the cockpit to grab one of the health kit's propped up on the wall.

"Washington, seriously, what's wrong did something happen to Kimball?" Simmons is starting to panic, glancing frantically back and forth between the unresponsive general and the Freelancer.

Returning back to Kimball with the health kit he opens it and scrounges through the contents, setting aside a canister of biofoam but skipping over the polypseudomorphine and the stitch kit. 

Everyone in the Pelican has their eyes on them, on the edge of their seat, and a weak and stumbling footsteps from the top of the hull tells them that Carolina is going to join in soon on the building tension.

Meanwhile, Wash has carefully lifted off Kimball's helmet and Grif immediately notes her pallid and sweaty face. Her eyes are scrunched up and her hair sticks to her forehead.

The Freelancer brings his fingers up to her lips, probably trying to confirm if she was still breathing or not, but Grif guesses that she  _ must _ be given the way his shoulders drop in relief.

Setting aside the helmet, Wash starts to lift her limbs, checking for something- what exactly Grif doesn't know. Maybe a bullet wound or a laceration or something-

Carolina is climbing back down the hatch but nobody greets her, and she unceremoniously drops to the ground bracing against the wall.

"Epsilon?" she calls out, but the AI doesn't answer her.

"Oh no, not Church too," Simmons groans, hands rising up to clench against his helmet in panic.

"Too?" Carolina repeats back tiredly, taking in Wash who just set Kimball back down gently into her seat. "Is Kimball- did something happen to the General?"

"I don't know, there's no sign of injury," Wash tells her, voice masking his worry. "Someone comm Grey, I want her medical to reach her as  _ soon _ as we get back to Crash Site Bravo."

"How could she have gotten hurt we can't-" Simmons takes in a shaky breath. "We can't lose anyone else."

And while everyone is worrying about how Kimball could have gotten hurt, Grif is too busy looking her over from where he stays seated, and he doesn't want to admit that  _ he's _ worried too- he never really handled grief well or losing people in such quick succession.

Kimball's shaking now. It's hard to tell, but because Grif is the only one looking-  _ really _ looking- he sees it. 

Looking at her now reminds him of a time when the only thing that seemed to matter was that Kai did well in school. And how sometimes she would stress over something  _ really _ big- drama or a test or whatever the fuck normal teenagers worried about- and if her nerves got so high up the second she overcame the event she would have to be confined to her room on bed rest.

Oh god, they couldn't possibly be this stupid. No visible injury, yet she looks haggard and on the verge of death-

"She's fucking sick, you  _ idiots," _ slips out of his mouth with more vitriol than he intends. "Jesus, have you never seen a sick person before?"

Great. Everyone in the carrier was looking at him now. Good going Grif, way to reassure everyone.

No one says anything- which, hurray, awkward as fuck- but Wash gets a considerate look on his face as he pulls off his glove and presses the back of his palm to Kimball's forehead.

With a sharp hiss of air, Wash pulls his hand away and slips his glove back on as he tells Grif, "Good catch. Unfortunately, there isn't anything we can give her right now from the health kit. We just have to hope she makes it to the crash site."

If the Pelican wasn't already dead silent, Grif would be willing to bet that  _ that _ would have everyone by the throat quiet.

_ If _ Kimball makes it to the crash site.

* * *

Opening the cockpit doors to the harried skimming glance of Dr. Grey is like a punch to the fucking stomach.

Because even while they called ahead to let her know that Kimball needed medical aid  _ like, now, _ nobody told her they were one man down.

"Where's-" she starts, but then once all of the Reds and Freelancers have descended she comes to the realization herself.  _ "Oh no, Donald." _

But Grey is anything but efficient, and Simmons immediately gets out of her ways as she grabs at Kimball and hurries her towards where ever the fuck they designated the makeshift medic wing.

The Blues come running up soon after.

"Why is Kimball being carried away," Tucker asks in a rush. "Where's- what happened to Doyle? Why isn't he with you?"

Simmons looks away, throat closing up. What to even say about that? They- the Reds- had come back to retrieve them and- and they couldn't even manage to do that.

"No," Tucker shakes his head in denial. "Don't tell me-"

"He died a hero," Carolina snaps, stepping forward but stumbling only slightly. "He detonated the reactors himself, wiping out a significant portion of the pirates."

"Can- can Church come out now?" Caboose asks out of nervousness, and Simmons knows that the AI is a source of comfort for the Blue.

"Epsilon," Carolina takes a moment to breathe and steady herself. "Shielding the ship took too much out of him. He'll be out of commission for a little while."

Caboose bows his head, and Simmons feels like joining him. There is no possible bright side to be found in this entire situation. 

Sure, they may have taken out a good chunk of the Charon forces. But Doyle had to die to do that.

And now Felix had the  _ key. _

* * *

Sarge doesn't mean to watch over Kimball as the medics try to break her fever. He doesn't really know all the fancy techniques that the professionals have- although on a normal day he would laud his impressive double cyborg-organ-transplant surgery as a work of genius and art.

Nothing about today was a normal day.

Grey catches him watching and gestures for him to follow her to a more secluded part of the ship.

"Colonel-" she starts but he cuts her off.

"Sarge," he tells her. "Just Sarge."

She doesn't seem flustered in the slightest by the correction, and outright ignores it, "Colonel I think it's important to give you an idea of what...  _ might _ occur if the General is unable to break her fever."

Suddenly the stressing of his rank started to make sense. Didn't stop the glorious red blood from draining from his face.

"Now that..." her cheerful tone sours immediately, and she stops to get it under control. "Now that Donald has passed, and Vanessa is in a dour position, while I do try to stay optimistic, I think it's important to begin talks about the chain of command!"

Shaking his head, because he knows what she's implying and he won't stand for it, he counters, "Those blue-aligned Freelancers, as much as it pains me to admit it, would make excellent leaders, you're right-"

"I mean no offense to Agent Carolina nor Agent Washington but they are not technically assigned a rank in any Chorus military," it was Grey's turn to cut him off. "The second highest-ranking officer is you,  _ Colonel." _

"Surely there must be someone else in front of me," Sarge doesn't know why he's protesting this so much. An army under his control would, of course, be entirely Red and the Blues would be more outmatched than they already are.

But this is never how he would have wanted it. To come into command due to everyone else in front of him dying. There was nothing glorious about this.

"You know as well as I do that there is  _ no one _ else!" she chirps, and he can't tell if she's receding back into her Stepford smiler facade because she too doesn't want to face the truth of the worst possible outcome of Kimball falling ill. "Donald was a secretary after all before becoming a general himself!"

And like the final nail in the coffin she concludes, "You Colonel Sarge should prepare yourself for the possibility of running the Chorus army should General Kimball die to illness!"

* * *

News spread like wildfire amongst the run down and scattered forces. One medic slipping and spilling to a Republic soldier who practically scampered and rushed to tell  _ every _ Republic soldier, comms open on all sides which leads to a Fed soldier overhearing and then spreading it fucking  _ further. _

Here's what the two armies know: Doyle is dead and Kimball is on her way too.

Neither of them handles the news well. And the Blues are too preoccupied with making sure that Church is fine or whatever to realize the brewing shit show happening right on their run down doorsteps.

The already fragile alliance is about to fucking  _ crumble. _

It was only a matter of time before infighting started to break out. They have mere fucking  _ hours _ before they can possibly stop the Charon forces from killing each and every one of them.

* * *

The Feds trust Sarge. This is only because of the time he had spent captured by them, however brief the actual imprisonment part of it was.

But they trust him and that's important and that's why with Donut's enlisted help he gathers however many Fed soldiers stationed at Crash Site Bravo into a nice, cordial assembly to get them to get their  _ shit together. _

They are not able to get every single Fed in one place- being scattered and whatnot- but the group is still manageable in size, and what he tells them will inevitably get out to the rest of the troops anyhow.

"Alright, I ain't gonna coddle you like some other superior officer might, but I'm gonna tell you once and only once to stop that nonsense of stirring up fights with the Republic soldiers when we don't have time to handle more than one enemy," Sarge was never one to beat around the bush, and they are on a time limit, multiple time limits in fact. The sooner he got this through their incredibly thick skulls the better. "We are  _ working _ together in case you all forgot."

None of the Feds say anything, but he isn't stupid enough to think that just saying a pretty word or two could get the feeling of resentment to leave so soon.

"It should've been her," one of the Feds spat, feeling plucky enough to speak out amongst the crowd.

"Which one of you said that!" Sarge barks, looking out into the sea of near-identical white armor. At least the Republic kept it unique by having the soldiers paint patterns on their armor.

The Fed must have been angry enough to step out of the crowd, the other soldiers parting so that the speaker could be clearly seen, and the man's fists are clenched tightly as he repeats, "It should've been her who died for the rest of us! Not General Doyle! Hopefully, she'll die now, it's what she  _ deserves!" _

"You-" Sarge pointed at the soldier from where he stood in the middle of the crowd. "Come a little closer."

The Fed stalks forward but jolts backward instantly at the sound of a shotgun round firing in his direction.

"I said come a little closer didn't I!" he growls, cocking the shotgun back. "Or are you afraid of a little round or two?"

Clearly shaken by having almost been shot if he had been in range, the Fed stays back and merely shakes at Sarge's raised voice. 

"You best hope that Kimball doesn't die now because then you'll be left under my command and let me tell you that I am no liar when I say I'm not above discharging you  _ permanently _ from  _ my _ army," Sarge snaps at the coward, then he turns to address the rest of the crowd, "I don't want to hear another peep like what this one's said until the General is back in full health." 

Just before he dismisses the group from his sight, he makes sure to tack on, "Believe what you want about Doyle's death, but that man died knowing that you all would be in Kimball's very capable hands, and that woman is stronger than any other soldier I have  _ ever _ met."

He stalks off with Donut trailing behind him, reaching for his shoulder asking, "Sarge, are you ok?"

Sarge rarely shows a moment of weakness in front of his men- hates doing so, actually- but just this once, he collapses against the side of the wreckage and breathes out, "I'll be fine, son."

God help them all if Sarge is ever made general.

* * *

The New Republic soldiers are like chickens whose heads have been cut off. Running around with no direction or guidance.

And in moments like these, it only makes sense for them to turn to the only other leading figures that they've known.

Grif and Simmons stand in front of a quivering crowd, sobs breaking out amongst the soldiers faced with the possibility that they are going to lose one of the last threads of leadership that their side originally fought for.

"Look, I'm gonna level with you all," Grif starts, knowing that Simmons was shaking where he stood too, nervous in front of the large crowd. "This whole situation fucking blows, but there's no need to start picking fights with the Feds just because you wanna be a crybaby."

Perhaps not the most tact reproach, but they didn't have time to spoon-feed the soldiers who were supposed to help them  _ soon _ with a fucking war so who gives a shit.

"So, we good or do I need to bring out all the reasons why it's so much  _ easier _ to comply then fight a losing battle," Grif asks, not expecting an answer.

There's a quiet but fierce voice that responds, "Those Feds want to take our general away, it's all their fault that she's sick."

Wanting to sigh loudly, Grif settle for just rolling his eyes behind his visor, "I don't know if you heard or not, but getting sick is something that happens to just about anyone. Who knew!"

"General Kimball, she- she cares too much!" the foolish Republic soldier continues. "If she cared less about that idiot Fed general then she would be fine now! Happy even- we should all be happy that he's gone now!"

Grif's never had good teeth- consequence of being a smoker after all- but he's pretty sure that he cracked a tooth from how hard he clenched his teeth.

"What's your name," he asks the soldier.

"Private Siobhan," said private answers dutifully.

"Cool, before Kimball gives her last dying breath I'll make sure to tell her how much of a heartless person you think she is," Grif nods, ignoring the sharp gasps from the crowd, and the stern look Simmons throws him. "I'll make sure she dies knowing exactly what her people think of her."

Indignation floods the private’s voice as she retorts, "That's not-"

"Sure it was," he shrugs. "She cared too much and now she's sick. So obviously you don't think she cared before, and Doyle must have  _ poisoned _ her mind somehow and now it's coming in full to kill her. It's ok, I'll make sure she knows this."

The Republic soldier must have taken his words seriously- good- because she started to backtrack, "No, I- I would never insinuate that the General  _ never _ cared-"

"So, what? She can care so long as she's cherry-picking who she gives a shit about?" Grif knows he's twisting the own private’s words against her, but holy shit is he so tired of fucking fighting and civil war bullshit! "Let me tell you what happened- Kimball wanted it to be  _ her _ that died."

The crowd falls silent at the admission.

"And do you want to know what the idiot Fed General said?" Grif quirks an eyebrow. "He said fucking 'no' because Kimball was better than him. Better at fighting, leading, whatever the fuck, you name it. His only worth would be fucking sacrificing his ass so you worthless idiots could have a chance at winning this pipe dream of a last stand."

Private Siobhan lowers her head, as do the rest of the soldiers gathered.

"So maybe, before you talk shit about the person responsible for literally  _ any _ of this being possible, you actually think about the crap your spewing and whether it makes sense of not, and consider the fact that your general is probably gonna be dead right alongside him too," and Grif storms away from the group.

Simmons, by his side like always, tells him, "You could have been nicer about it."

"Who cares," Grif mumbles. "We're all gonna be dead anyway."

* * *

Sarge is there when Epsilon starts to become more coherent, and in a disgusting sense of irony, he's grateful for the distraction the Blue offers him. And soon together as a group they are all gathered around the disorientated AI to catch him up on what he missed during his recuperation time.

The Feds, while quieter, did not have their minds swayed. The Republic at least was a little more reflective.

They still weren't unified. And they could make plans all they fucking like but that wouldn't change the fact that if the two groups couldn't fight together then they would be fucking toast.

But then, in all her magnificent sweaty and disgusting glory, Kimball is stumbling towards them, using a makeshift IV pole as a cane, shaking all the while, announcing her presence with, "L- let  _ me _ talk to them."

"Kimball, you're in no condition to be up," Grey is immediately at her side, having tracked her down upon noticing that she was missing from the cot they settled her on.

"N-no," she shook her head and swayed dangerously with the movement. "This is- is something I  _ have _ to do."

They all looked at each other, trying to gauge whether this would be a good idea or not.

But the determination consumed Kimball's gaze, and no one could deny that a speech from the nearly downed leader would rouse the army together.

Sighing, Grey extending her arm towards Kimball to help her towards a balcony to call for all of the soldiers, "Only if you're ready, Vanessa."

As gracefully as a sick woman could, Kimball accepted the arm, and let Grey lead her to her people.

"Of course I am," she whispers, and they're all just relieved that she isn't dead.

* * *

The Reds only wish that they could have done fucking  _ more. _ They were called back, and they did what exactly? How did they help beyond Lopez who flew the Pelican?

Nothing.

They couldn't do anything when Doyle sacrificed his life for them or when Kimball fell sick in the midst of their escape.

There must have been something more they could have done. This was something they all collectively agreed upon in their independent musings.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this reminded me how much I enjoyed, but don't remember, about the Chorus trilogy. But I _do_ remember the Reds hardly being involved with much, if any, plot-relevant stuff. So I suppose this fic is in response to that specific helplessness they had going for them.
> 
> Once again, I wish an amazing happy birthday towards Ria, who deserves wonderful things to happen to them! As always, my Tumblr's are: @agent-murica (main) and @amateurscribes (writing)!


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